


just so the stillness makes sense to me

by nostomaniac



Category: Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: M/M, not nonexplicit sex so much as weird foreplay between gay people, some old komahina i had bouncing around, something analogous to a character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26140876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostomaniac/pseuds/nostomaniac
Summary: “oi, komaeda. i know refusing to profess my love isn’t the biggest turn-on, but at least pay attention to me when we’re, you know, having sex.”komaeda weighs the merits of love and the plight of its witless partakers while his boyfriend tries to get his clothes off in the foreground.
Relationships: Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito
Comments: 2
Kudos: 65





	just so the stillness makes sense to me

komaeda’s hands shake, as they always do, as if they had hearts of their own - hearts that quiver as if overwrought with a chronic tachycardia.

and as he always is, hinata is under him, his warm hands placed over komaeda’s bare chest, steadying him. his anchor, permanent and unerring. an aching, undefinable frisson tears through komaeda. he’s learned to identify it as peace.

hinata’s eyes blink up at him, lambent and reassuring, the darkness washing them of their colour. blanching them, even if momentarily, of the bifurcation within. but if komaeda shuts his eyes, he can see it, a mirage resolving into a retinal burn. a duality of red and green. 

for a moment, his mind drifts. he knows that kamukura still lingers within hinata. the boy with incurious eyes and hair that fell in tortuous waves. the boy he’d reached towards, remaining extant in hands that spun artificial talent as one does wheat into gold. the same hands that chart his skin now, the quiet enormity of a cartographer unfolding a mesopotamian map.

he wonders at who they are now, and who they were before – two people with the same unerring fixation on hope, who destroyed themselves in the denouement of their futile pursuit. they fell to despair and fell to hope, diseases that razed their bodies to the ground, and found themselves again in the realm of the illusory.

but looking at hinata now, komaeda realises that he would never have fallen in love with him if they had met anywhere but the island. 

in that sense, he supposes that their despair, intimate and winding and unadulterated, creeping quiescent in their veins, could have been good luck after all.

the words komaeda wants to say - should say - live and die on the tip of his tongue. _i love you. i don’t want to lose you. you are my future. you, you, you are a hundred first times, and i never want for there to be a last._ instead, he murmurs, his voice fragile as new-blown glass, “hinata-kun. are you afraid?”

hinata looks steadily up at him, his jaw set. “komaeda. you know as well as i do that i’m not. given that i explicitly told you that i wanted this–“ his fingers travel abstractedly over komaeda’s hips – “i should think that even you would have taken the hint.”

komaeda shivers, the intimate contact sending quadrilles of heat down his torso. and always, always, the frenzied terror rears its head, incipient in his bones, that only the cataclysmic could follow this, and _how could he enjoy this now, knowing what comes next, what always comes next_ -

hinata tips his head up and brushes his mouth against komaeda’s, truncating his spiral with the beginning of another. his expression looks pained as he pulls away. “it’s funny. i could never get a read off you on the island. and now that i can...”

hinata breathes sharply, and a shudder of something rips through him, quietly, exquisitely, so acutely that komaeda feels it replicating against his own skin. it’s familiar, so familiar; the very same tremor that plagues him when he sleeps and dreams of flame and poison and blood and disgusting hands that aren’t his own inhabiting his wasted body. 

“i’m not scared of you,” he says finally, his intent eyes searching komaeda’s. he averts his gaze. “but you still confuse me.”

komaeda lets out a short laugh. “frank as always,” he volleys flippantly. “not even an ‘i love you’, huh? that troubles me - we’ve been dating for over half a year.”

“i’m not exactly a sweet nothings kind of guy, if you haven’t noticed,” hinata points out, grinning, and komaeda’s lungs are suddenly divested of air as he lunges upward and his mouth seeks purchase in the small of his throat. hinata’s hot breath fans languorously over his neck, exhumes a pleased hiss from komaeda’s parted lips. 

he’s right, komaeda thinks meditatively as hinata arches against his prone body and something in his gut twitches deliciously from the contact. hajime hinata is a creature of action. in the time since he woke up, gasping and cast in the green of the simulation, he’s watched hinata do nothing but work tirelessly to make certain that their world would not end, that atonement would not mean stasis. he had never met anyone so _stubborn_.

komaeda isn’t always given to candour at the best of times, but in his more honest moments, he can concede to being confounded by hinata as well. his was contradiction without armistice – arrogance and self-flagellation, ardour and ennui, cynicism and hope. he was a study in chiaroscuro, in humanity distilled into its composite fractions.

god knows, though, that everything he’s ever wanted lies in their resolution.

he’s pulled back to the present by a surprised moan that he surmises a keystroke too late to scramble for dignity came from his very mouth. it takes a second to register that hinata’s fingers are fondling the outside of his boxers, slowly, indulgently; his freckled face is alit with an uncharacteristically impish smile. “oi, komaeda,” he scolds softly. “i know refusing to profess my love isn’t the biggest turn-on, but at least pay attention to me when we’re, you know, having sex.”

komaeda gives him a disapproving look – the impact of which might just be undermined by the fact that hinata’s hand is halfway down his pants. “chicanery, hinata? i didn’t take you for the type.”

hinata hums. “says the guy who’s evidently enjoying this-“ he pauses, his grin widening. “- and is wet _already_ , somehow.” he quirks an eyebrow at him, somehow managing to keep his head even while his arms, still rounded with boyish softness, awkwardly hoist his body up behind him.

komaeda rolls his eyes, affection colouring his voice when he speaks. “you are unbelievable, hinata-kun,” he drawls. 

as if this were at all novel. as if hinata hadn’t always been the one to disconcert him, to unbalance him. to be his antithesis, to deconstruct him and find meaning in the pieces. to be the problem he could never bring himself to solve.

as he leans down to kiss hinata, however, he decides he’s content to spend the rest of his natural life basking in the coruscating absurdity of being, so long as it’s with him.

**Author's Note:**

> and we’re back with more kmhn power hour! im really tired and romantically starved so here. take my mess of an outlet and give me vindication


End file.
